A - Z of Breaking Up
by Ethanamide
Summary: Set between S3E1 and S3E3, In essense: why do Molly and Tom break up? John decides Tom should get to know Molly's friends better, including Sherlock, and even Mycroft gets in on the action. Here's a series of scenarios that could have something to do with it, listed alphabetically.
1. A: Apple Pie

A is for Apple pie

Molly and Tom were enjoying a lazy Sunday afternoon, he was reading the paper, and she was baking mini apple pies for work the next week. The flat was peaceful and smelt wonderful, unfortunately it was not to last for long. A key could be heard turning in the lock, and in burst a very soggy looking Sherlock Holmes. It was all Molly could do to not stare as the detective took off his wet coat and scarf- she wasn't sure how he'd managed it, but his shirt was also sopping wet.

"Molly, why does he have a key?" Tom asked,

"He stays here sometimes," Molly answered, like it was the most normal thing in the world.

"Why?" Tom said slowly, confused evident on his face

"We agreed he needed the space," She answered quickly

"Why is he going into the bedroom?" Tom's questions were not endearing him to Sherlock,

"To get changed, obviously." Sherlock answered drily

"You should shower first." Molly said without thinking; it was what her mother had her do when she came home from school dripping wet.

"I'm quite wet enough thank you." Sherlock replied tersely,

"We can see that Mr Darcy." Tom muttered Molly glared daggers at him, as there was nothing to hand to throw at his head. Sherlock re-appeared, half-naked

"Towel." He barked

"Airing cupboard," Molly said, as if they had had this conversation many times. Tom watched the interactions between the two with interest and moderate confusion, Molly had informed him that Sherlock used to pop by every now and again, she'd never mentioned a key.

"I know you've moved them, bottom drawer, left hand side," Sherlock said, as Molly was about to explain where his spare clothes were, she simply nodded and turned her attention to removing the apple pies from the oven.

"Since when did you keep his clothes here?!" Tom exclaimed,

"Oh please, it's painful. She's already told you I stay here; surely I'm going to need clothes. Especially after she banned me from wandering around in just a sheet." Sherlock replied, in his most bored tone of voice. Molly kept her back to her fiancé, trying to force her face back to a more normal shade of peach.

"Anything else I should know?" Tom asked, exasperated, Sherlock waltzed out of the bedroom, fully dressed, which included another coat.

"Should know? There's plenty you could know," Sherlock smirked at the look on Tom's face,

"There's really not," Molly tried to reassure Tom, bringing him over a hot apple pie as a peace offering.

"Careful with those pies, Mycroft might just turn up. Says he's on a diet, but it's all lies." Sherlock promptly snaffled a pie, and made his way to the door

"How would Mycroft know I baked pie?" Molly gave Sherlock a tight lipped smile, she knew the answer to her question.

"Actually, that's probably something you should know, he bugged your flat. Good day." Sherlock swept out of the flat, leaving a rather bemused Tom, and highly embarrassed Molly behind. A sharp knock on the door broke the uncomfortable silence; Tom went to open it, as Molly had disappeared into the bedroom, to clean up after Sherlock.

"How can I help you?" Tom asked the very well dressed gentleman with an umbrella standing on their doorstep. Molly poked her head out of the bedroom door-

"Come in Mycroft," She called from across the room.

"I see you've already had the pleasure of my little brother today," He commented, making his way over to the apple pies.

"Why did you bug the flat?" Tom blurted out, Mycroft turned sharply on his heel, pie in hand.

"For Molly's safety, my brother gets caught himself caught up with many _unsavoury_ folk. Requested her security be looked after while he was away." Mycroft said in his most patronising voice, as Molly reappeared.

"Erm, why are you here Mycroft?" Molly asked, proud at how steady she'd kept her voice.

"Sherlock already told you that." He smiled briefly and left. Tom turned to Molly,

"So Sherlock Holmes uses your flat when he fancies it, and his brother spies on you for cake?" He surmised, somewhere between stunned and horrified.

"Yeah," Molly smiled weakly,

"Wait, you're ok with that?" He was struggling to adjust to the new 'normal' now he'd been introduced to Molly's friends.

"I guess so," She shrugged, now it had been said it out loud, it did sound fairly absurd.

"You are going to tell them they can't do this when we're married, aren't you?" Tom clarified; he didn't fancy the Holmes brothers turning up at will in his home.

"Of course." Molly said reassuringly, telling Sherlock was one thing; actually stopping him doing it was another matter entirely.


	2. B: Brotherly Love

Hope you all enjoy reading this as much as I've enjoyed writing it! Big thanks to all following/favouriting/ so far, and nowsusieq, SammyKatz, and dragonindigo for reviewing!

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B is for Brotherly Love

Tom wasn't sure how he had ended up in a disused warehouse on London's Southbank; it was all a bit of a blur. He was sure it had involved tramps, government officials and ice-cream, but not in what order or why. The distant sound of footsteps grew closer and before he knew it, he was face-to-face with the man who had bugged Molly's flat in order to get cake.

"Now Thomas, we have things to discuss" Mycroft's voice echoed through the warehouse,

"We do?" Tom almost squeaked, in films these scenarios usually ended up badly for the person in his position.

"Molly is the only pathologist that will work with my brother, and if he doesn't have work, he gets bored. When Sherlock gets bored, bad things happen. You follow," Mycroft ignored the obvious discomfort his guest was experiencing.

"Yes, still not sure what this has to do with me," Tom tried hard not to stutter,

"Your flat is bugged to protect Dr. Hooper, it was done at Sherlock's request. That should tell you all you need to know." Mycroft smirked,

"So he gets himself mixed up in things that could be harmful to Molly?" Tom was pretty sure they'd already had this conversation, not long before several apple pies went missing.

"Goldfish. If anything was to happen to Molly, my brother wouldn't take too kindly to it. He's not known for adhering to social protocol, and if he wanted you never to be found, I'm sure he could achieve it. I'd rather not have to deal with that situation, and I'm sure you wouldn't either," Mycroft decided spelling out the situation, despite how tedious, may make things run more efficiently.

"Are you threatening me?" Tom asked cautiously, taking a step backwards,

"No, my dear boy, I'm simply making bringing you up to speed, if you will. Sherlock has some unusual habits which Dr. Hooper foolishly indulges; it would be wise of you to turn a blind eye to these. It could end badly for you if you were to question the peculiar brand of normalcy enjoyed by people who tolerate my brother. Any questions?" Mycroft now sounded as bored as he felt, he was aware that wading into his brother's business was not advisable, and an upset Molly may bake more cake, but she'd eat it too much of it. Overall, less cake.

"What do you mean by unusual habits?" Tom's voice was becoming increasingly unsteady.

"I think you should pay Dr. Watson a visit, Anthea will take you. He's presently alone at home. Good day. Oh and Tom, I don't think Molly needs to know about this" Mycroft dismissed Tom with a flick of the wrist. Tom followed Anthea out of the building; this was definitely pretty high on his list of weirdest things to experience.

"Hello John, I'm not really sure why I'm here," Tom said sheepishly, as John opened the door. He caught a flash of a black Jaguar and shook his head,

"Mycroft. You'd better sit down, cup of tea?" John was well accustomed to the oddities and moderate kidnappings of the Holmes brothers, but Tom was not.

"Please," Tom said gratefully, following John into the house.

"What did Mr British Government want from you?" John asked,

"Nothing, he wanted to talk about Molly" Tom smiled nervously

"He offered me money to spy on Sherlock the first time I met him." John tried to lighten the mood,

"He warned me that if Molly wasn't to go into work for whatever reason, bad things would happen." Tom fidgeted on the spot,

"Pretty much. Possibly the end of the world as we know it. Most likely is that they'll come after you- although it would likely be a race between Sherlock and all the other pathologists at Bart's. To put it in perspective, Molly had flu once, really bad couldn't get out of bed flu. I caught him trying to smuggle her out, so I told him in no uncertain terms she wasn't allowed to leave the flat. Do you know what his reaction to that was? He brought said cadaver to her flat, laid it out on her kitchen table, and then proceeded to carry her around the kitchen to get her view on it. I'm still not sure how he transported an entire dead body across London unnoticed," John explained, he was sure Molly wouldn't ever say no to Sherlock, but Tom had to be on side, just in case.

"Wow." Tom had to consciously check his mouth was shut,

"He won't work with anyone else, and no-one else will work with him." John recited automatically.

"Mycroft said I should ask you about Sherlock's unusual habits." Tom said after a short pause filled will sipping tea.

"I lived with the bastard for long enough, I know most of them. Violin at 4 in the morning, body parts in the fridge and not a shred of social nous." John chuckled to himself, despite the noise and the need to get a lock for the bathroom, it had been good fun.

"I don't understand what that's got to do with Molly," Tom was back to square one, why did everyone think would these terrible habits have such an impact on his and Molly's life together, it wasn't as if Sherlock was going to live with them, was he?

"He keeps her in the lab at ridiculous hours; she gives him said body parts and sometimes helps him experiment on them. She will end up missing things like birthday dinners, if there's an interesting murder on Christmas he'll turn up and drag her off. I think what Mycroft is trying to say, is to try and not interfere with that." John realised that Tom wasn't quite as aware of Sherlock's working habits, and demands as he should be,

"That's hardly fair," Tom said, slightly taken aback

"That's Sherlock. He works to his own schedule, and Molly is the most tolerant of that. What has she told you of the events two years ago?"

"Not a lot, he had to fake his death. She faked the records." Tom shrugged,

"It was more than that, he entrusted her with his life. He's a very unusual man, but fiercely protective of his friends. Sherlock could read you like a book and expel all your secrets to Molly. The fact that he hasn't so far is miraculous. If you don't want him to, then I'd advise staying out of his way." John was less than impressed with Molly's summary of things, and felt the need to explain further. Tom took a large gulp of his tea, the biggest question plaguing his mind needed to be answered.

"John, what happens when Sherlock gets bored?" Tom asked with no minor amount of trepidation.

"He becomes thoroughly intolerable. He shoots walls." John answered, becoming increasingly concerned that the more questions Tom asked about Sherlock, the less likely he was to continue his engagement with Molly.

"I also hid things in your room to see if you'd notice." Sherlock sauntered into the room, adding his tuppence worth. Any remaining colour left Tom's face quickly.

"Like chicken hearts, why are you here?" John demanded he hated that his friend could sneak up on him so easily.

"Molly was concerned; apparently Tom wasn't answering his phone. She wanted to know what you wanted for dinner. I told her she wouldn't be there to cook it so why bother. The security in this house is appalling John," Sherlock relayed his conversation with Molly to Tom, quickly returning to matters he found more interesting.

"I was in the Army, Sherlock; I'm quite capable of looking after us." John retorted shortly,

"As you keep reminding me. I could quite easily have killed both of you and disposed of you before you I made my presence known." Sherlock responded trying to suppress laughing at John's enraged face.

"Molly's shift ends at 3, she'll be home in plenty of time for dinner," Tom, again, had missed the underlying point of the conversation, and the one previous.

"I don't think she will somehow, where are we going?" John sighed, if Molly wasn't going to get home for dinner, then he certainly wouldn't.

"Gavin says there's been a body found, no toenails. No marks on the body, no sign of a struggle, and no toenails." Sherlock said, making no attempt to hide his glee.

"Greg. I'll try and help her escape at a reasonable time," John said to Tom as a parting apology, the two of them almost pushed out the door by an overzealous detective.

"Come John, the game is on." Sherlock said briskly, hailing the next cab.

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B is for Baker Street was also recommended, but I'd almost finished writing this at the time. If people aren't adverse to more than one representation per letter, I'll get cracking on that prompt?


	3. B: Baker Street

Many thanks all round, so glad you're enjoying it! Special thank yous to those who favourited, followed and Bucky5, SammyKatz, Tarte Hearte, Khione'sKid.306, dragonindigo and coolaquarian who reviewed.

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For dragonindigo - B is for Baker Street

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221B Baker Street was an unusual place to be by most people's standards: skull on the mantel piece, microscope on the table, bullet holes in the walls, but it was home to Sherlock Holmes. It was there that he could just lie on the floor for days on end and no one would so much as bat an eyelid. Today however, was not a day for lying on the floor, today was a day for science. It was a slow day for cases, everything in his inbox was a 4 or less. He'd text Molly this morning to see if there was anything he could soak in a variety of transition metal salts, curious as to how the pigmentation of the skin would be affected, how quickly it would permeate and what would happen to things like nails and hair. He wrote down his preliminary thoughts on the matter in his lab book, waiting for the sample matter to arrive. He didn't have to wait long, there was a knock on the door downstairs, he was moderately disappointed that Molly had sent Tom (she had her own key- didn't trust herself to give it him, he doesn't know about it) until he thought of another experiment he could run along parallel.

"Mrs Hudson! Door!" He shouted down, he heard mutterings along the lines of her usual protestations,

"He's upstairs dear," She ushered Tom in and disappeared off to make tea. He made his way up the stairs with a cumbersome cool box, the instructions associated with which were simple: don't look, give to Sherlock and get out.

"Ah, hello Tom. What've we got today?" Sherlock was trying his best to be polite; he needed a trial run for something.

"I don't know I was told just to give it to you and go home, keep out of the way." Tom shrugged a nervous smile on his face.

"Can I at least offer you a cup of tea?" Sherlock knew he could be the perfect host when he wanted something. Especially if that something could be got via tea.

"Er, sure. What are you planning on doing with them?" Tom wasn't sure this was a good idea, but acquiescing to Sherlock's request seemed to be less dangerous than saying no to the man, he was a sociopath after all.

"Hmmm, fingers, good, arm, good, oooh, ear! She is good, I'm going to soak them in some salts and see what happens" Sherlock grinned widely, partially at his excellent haul, partially at Tom's obvious horror. Sherlock looked down at his watch, handing a hot mug of tea to Tom. They sat in uncomfortable silence while Tom drank the tea, Sherlock not moving until he heard the front door open and close violently.

John flew up the stairs and into the main living space of the flat, rage etched across his face,

"What are you doing?" John asked bluntly

"I'm getting to know my friend's partner, tea, that's what people do isn't it?" Sherlock flailed his hands about, as if it would make his point more valid.

"You aren't people." John said, as if he needed reminding

"I know," Sherlock grinned

"What's the alterior motive" John knew that face, that was the face that had ended up with him having unwittingly missed an entire Wednesday.

"There isn't one," the taller man shrugged, setting up the relevant glassware on the table.

"Has he offered you anything to eat or drink?" John turned to Tom, not having noticed the tea mug when he stormed into the room,

"Tea?" Tom said he seemed to be finding himself in far too many confusing situations involving Molly's friends recently.

"What did you put in it?" John asked Sherlock, who ignored John's question and looked down at his watch. Tom fell on the floor with a thud.

"Bit not good?" It was Sherlock's turn to be confused; John did not look impressed to say the least.

"Molly's going to kill you."


	4. C: Coffee, Concussion, Cake

It all just rolled into one as I wrote it, hope you enjoy reading it as much as i enjoyed writing it. Thanks again to all reading this, and especially Bucky5, Yarnandahalfspin, and espee for the reviews!

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C is for Coffee, Concussion, and Cake

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"Molly, why is there a stack of takeaway coffee cups in the corner?" Tom asked, they had been building up over the past couple of weeks and were getting untidy.

"Sherlock," Molly answered awkwardly,

"As in they're there for him, or they are his?" The more Tom got to know about Sherlock Holmes, the less the understood about his life.

"Both, sort of, he has a habit of sporadically turning up for coffee and then disappearing before he drinks it. This way, I don't end up losing all my mugs. He just used to walk off with them. They'd turn up in the morgue about 3 months later." Molly flashed him a quick smile, why did Sherlock have to over complicate everything in her life?

"This is another of those supposedly normal things." Tom realised

"I've worked out over the years how to make him as minimally invasive as possible- bit like keyhole surgery" She nodded, keyhole surgery was a lot less painful though.

"Yeah," Tom replied quickly, paling a little at the notion of surgery. Both of them turned around sharply at the sound of a large thump.

"MOLLY! COFFEE!" Came the dulcet tones of Sherlock Holmes from her bedroom.

"Why doesn't he use the door?" Tom asked, the man's obsession with windows was very odd.

"In answer to your question, I've just been chased from Woolwich. I managed to lure him in the direction of John, who shot him. I didn't really want half a drug gang at your door. Hence, window. Molly, coffee." Sherlock said without taking a breath, making his way over to the sofa.

"Please?" Molly knew she was pushing her luck, but post-case Sherlock was the easiest to manipulate into manners.

"PLEASE! COFFEE!" He shouted tripping over his own feet and ending up face first in the rug in front of the tele.

"Don't bother Molls, he's passed out." Tom called to the kitchen

"Suffering from a mild concussion." Sherlock said in his special tone of voice reserved for correcting people

"Oh no, we're not doing that again." Molly almost shrieked from the kitchen.

* * *

_In the days of yore (read: pre-John), when Sherlock got into scrapes he would get Molly to patch him up. A sprained ankle here, a broken finger there. The occasional burn. There was one particular incident that Molly was not proud of, nor did she ever want to repeat. Said incident had involved chemical smuggling, Sherlock had managed to prevent a substantial amount of something (she hadn't really been listening) that could significantly improve the production of something (it had been a long day, and as much as she loved chemistry, the ramblings of a graduate chemist aren't the easiest to understand). Mostly, she was just pleased that what sounded like illegal heavy duty organic synthesis had been prevented. Unfortunately, as it was being done illegally, there was a distinct lack of fume hoods employed by the criminals, and Sherlock had 'got a little dizzy' on the solvent fumes. Molly had sent him to shower to try and get the smell of those solvents (diethyl ether and DCM woman! Very distinctive smells) and help him clear his head. It was within five minutes of hearing the shower start up that Molly heard the noise she'd been dreading, an almighty bang, followed by a crash. Strangely, it was the lack of cursing that had worried her most; Sherlock would never say 'I'm alright' but he didn't usually give her (too much) undue cause for concern in such situations. She knocked on the door,_

"_Ok?" She asked briefly, expecting a grunt. Upon receiving no reply, she pushed the bathroom door ajar, still no noise. Molly was greeted by the sight of a very naked Sherlock Holmes face down on the floor, unconscious but breathing. She checked him for any obvious signs of trauma and then went to call an ambulance. An hour later a very angry Molly and a very groggy Sherlock were sitting in the A&E at King's. People wouldn't have batted an eyelid had Sherlock not been wearing the shower curtain and obviously nothing else. It took three hours to go through the tests required, Molly had snuck a sedative in his tea to stop him leaving the hospital halfway through the process, and it had the handy side effect of shutting him up, he'd caused three divorces and a broken nose in the first half an hour. Once he was cleared to leave, Molly hailed a cab, which wasn't easy given her traveling companion was somewhat indecent. She tried offering the cabbie double, and was about to give up entirely and walk him home when the driver took a double take,_

"_You Sherlock Holmes?" He asked, Sherlock gave a small nod,_

"_He is, he's concussed and sedated," Molly explained_

"_He saved my misses, he travels for free with me, you should have said, love!" The taxi driver grinned and helped Molly get Sherlock in the back._

"I'm not spending my evening in A&E with you again." She reiterated,

"What are you going to do then?" Sherlock asked, more than a little agitated.

"Well, I suppose I could make brownies."

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Mycroft was partial to a little cake. Every now and again, he would indulge his not-so-secret pleasure and make a journey over to Molly's. He'd been monitoring Sherlock for the past hour or so, making sure that he had effectively shut down the drugs ring, mostly feeling very bored. He had a very rare gap in his schedule, people taking time off for family holidays over Easter and the like. He didn't disapprove, only in that it made him less busy. His attention was firmly grasped by the word brownies, he text Anthea; he was going to need the car.


	5. C: Cross dressing

I'm going away for a couple of days, so here's a chapter to keep you amused. Lots of love to all, especially the lovely reviewers.

Note: I read a fic recently with this motif in it, and thought it could be highly amusing. I would credit them, but I have no idea who it was! So many thanks mysterious stranger.

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C is for Cross Dressing

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It had been a peaceful couple of weeks; Sherlock had been too engrossed in a case that was a 9, and then recovering from said case to bother Molly out of hours. She was enjoying a rare evening at home alone, while Tom worked some overtime, glass of wine in hand and a good book. She'd almost forgotten how relaxed it was, she'd been able to talk about her day with more words than, fine or good, or Sherlock nearly caused an outbreak of anthrax. Toby, her exceptionally fluffy ginger cat was a very patient listener, and didn't mind the gory details. Molly sighed to herself a little; it was not a good sign when you preferred talking to your cat over your fiancé. She pushed the thought to the back of her mind and turned her attention back to the book in hand. Before she could find her position on the page John rang,

"Molly, Sherlock should be coming through your door in approximately five minutes, please don't scream, or laugh, it's for a case." He said nervously,

"Ok… I'll see you later then?" Molly asked, assuming John would be picking Sherlock up.

"Yeah, I don't suppose Tom is there?" John

"He's working late; he should be back within the hour though." Molly

"Right, I'll try and get Sherlock out of there before he gets home." John replied, trying to impose damage limitation

"Thanks John, bye" Molly laughed softly as she hung up. Whatever was going on was going to be interesting to say the least. She heard the key in the lock and turned around to greet her guest.

"Have you still got my wigs?" Sherlock asked, no time for even his minimalistic niceties it would seem.

"Hang on," Molly said answering her phone,

"Hi honey, we're done sooner than we thought, I'll be home in 20 minutes" Tom said happily, looking forward to spending a quiet night in with his future wife.

"Ok," Molly hung up quickly "I think they're in the top of the airing cupboard," She continued, wigs were not a good start to her evening.

"Right, to work." Sherlock removed his shoes and swept off towards the cupboard, he chose a long brown wig, and disappeared into the bedroom. A few minutes later and Molly received her summons,

"I need you to zip me up," Came the gruff shout

"You what?" Molly tried not to blush too hard, she could only think of one garment of men's clothing that had a zip, and where it was.

"Come in here," He barked, she opened her bedroom door to find Sherlock Homes stood in a dress, a short red dress, and sheer black tights. She couldn't quite believe what she was seeing,

"Stop gawking Molly, time is of the essence, I need you to zip me up and do whatever it is you women do with make-up." He said flippantly, sitting down on the edge of her bed.

"Why couldn't Mary do it?" Molly asked, still unsure as to whether she'd accidently taken some hallucinogen.

"Mary has John, who was less than compliant when I explained what would need to be done." Sherlock's tone of voice was terse; he'd had to agree to something he really didn't want to do to get John to join him.

"What case could possibly justify this?" Molly picked up her make-up bag and brushes,

"That's what he said!" Sherlock exclaimed, as if it was the most normal thing in the world to ask your best friend to dress up as a woman in order to solve a crime.

"Well?" Molly wanted a reasonable explanation; she knew she had a better chance of getting one now than after the case was done.

"We've uncovered a large underground network of sex-slavery, which involves going undercover as a crossing dressing couple. Mrs Hudson must never hear about this." Sherlock surmised; his landlady (not housekeeper) had an already unhealthy obsession with his and John's relationship.

"Obviously." Molly rolled her eyes and began applying foundation to his very pale face. It was a good job her complexion required the lightest tone of make-up, or he'd be looking quite orange by now.

"I don't suppose you have any glitter?" He asked once she'd finished. He wasn't the most attractive woman, but it would do.

"Possibly somewhere," she shrugged, hunting through drawers she hadn't been in for quite a while.

"Hi Molls, I'm home!" Tom called as he walked through the door, Molly winced,

"Dinner's in the microwave, just put it on for 2 minutes," She replied, keeping her voice as level as possible

"Ok, where are you?" Tom asked, her book and wine were on the coffee table and a pair of man's shoes were by the door.

"In the bedroom," She answered shortly,

"Why?" Tom was pretty sure who the shoes belonged to, but he wanted to be sure.

"You don't want to know." She called back, mildly exasperated. Tom had seen enough odd things recently, he didn't need this too. The doorbell rang, breaking the silence in the flat, Tom opened it with a sense of trepidation, you never knew who was going to pop up when Sherlock was around. Luckily it was only John; Tom had come to appreciate the way the doctor tried to apologise for Sherlock's oddities.

"Hi Tom," John smiled a very forced smile and strode into the flat, "Sherlock we've got to go!" He shouted,

"I know, not my fault Molly's taking so long to find the glitter," Sherlock huffed, Molly's cries of objection followed shortly,

"Come on Sherlock, it's bad enough you've got us dressed up like this, hurry up!" John said impatiently, trying not to fall over in the ridiculous heeled shoes he was wearing.

"Fine," Sherlock barked, storming out of the bedroom.

"Looking good ladies, let's get you a cab, shall we?" Greg stood in the doorway grinning like a Cheshire cat.

"If this ends up on the internet, I will kill you, you included Mycroft." Sherlock declared no one doubted it. After they'd all left, Tom looked utterly bewildered

"What am I supposed to say to that?" He asked, his sense of a comfortable, normal life slipping away at a rate of knots.

"Just eat your dinner." Molly sighed, taking a large gulp of her wine.


	6. D: Drunk

Many thanks to all who are following this, apologies in the delay to updating, I've had a lot of statistical thermodynamics to do. Love to all, enjoy!

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D is for Drunk

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Molly, Greg and John had popped to the pub after a particularly arduous day babysitting the most annoying man in London. There had been a double homicide, cold case re-opened after another body had turned up in the same condition as the previous two. Sherlock had almost exploded; he hadn't had a decent 8 for a while. He'd run John ragged, apparently it had been necessary to avoid all forms of transport that day, for reasons never divulged. There had been several trips to Bart's, including an hour's straight quizzing for Molly over bodies that had been sent for cremation nearly twenty years ago. Molly had also been unfortunate, in that her shift started at 6 am. Sherlock hadn't left the morgue until 9 pm that evening. She was thoroughly exhausted too, and feeling guilty as Tom was going to take her out for dinner that evening. She'd had to cancel on him at short notice again- something that was becoming more frequent of late. Molly decided that she would have to have words with the detective, and when that didn't work John and Greg would.

"Where is that utter bastard anyway?" Asked Greg, downing the rest of his pint.

"Probably passed out in Baker Street, having eaten his body weight in chips. If he hadn't come home by now, Mrs Hudson would have rang," John shook his head at his former flat mate's behaviour, it was self-destructive at the best of times but post case it swung drastically in the opposite direction.

"I was supposed to have dinner with my fiancé tonight. Is it too much to ask to have one evening not disrupted, one normal evening a week?" Molly cried into her wine glass; an entire bottle on an empty stomach may not have been the wisest move. John patted her on the shoulder,

"Come on Molls, let's get you home. Mike's already swapped your shift for the 6pm one tomorrow." He said softly, helping Molly to her feet.

"You want us to catch you a cab?" Greg asked, Molly shook her head,

"It's ok guys, I can get home. Thanks see you tomorrow most likely," Molly waved giggling softly to herself. John and Greg waved back, walking in the opposite direction, shaking hands as they parted at the end of the road.

"Will she be alright?" Greg asked quietly, as if Molly was still close enough to hear.

"I'd put money on Sherlock's homeless network making sure she is," John said, more confident than he felt. They said their goodbyes and made their respective ways home.

Molly didn't want to get a cab; she knew she probably should, but she hoped walking back in the crisp night air would help clear her head a little. This wasn't her first Sherlock induced wine fest, and most certainly wouldn't be her last. She absent-mindedly tripped over a small hole in the pavement, landing awkwardly on her wrist. Molly swore under her breath and got back to her feet, it had been a while since she'd diagnosed a live body, but it was likely just a sprain. If it was worse in the morning she could pop upstairs before her shift. Besides, she was only about 5 minutes from home now, and the combined journey and wait tonight would be horrid.

"You really ought to watch where you're going," A low voice scolded from behind her,

"Sherlock! What are you doing here?" Molly exclaimed he was the last person she was expecting to see.

"I was informed you were inebriated and walking home, thought I'd check up on you. Your fiancé not see fit to escort you home safe?" Sherlock said coldly, looking down at her,

"Leave Tom out of this Sherlock. It's your fault I'm in this predicament anyway." She scowled up at him, the fact that Tom was asleep in bed had nothing to do with this, then again it's not like he would have been much use in a sticky situation anyway.

"Let me see your wrist." He ignored her, holding out his hand expectantly,

"It's fine, just a sprain." She deliberately took a step back from him, and when he took a step forward to forcibly take a look, she took another step back and poked her tongue out at him.

"I will take you to John's house. He can decide that." Sherlock sighed, the things he did to get access to the morgue.

Naturally, John did not appreciate the wakeup call. He'd not long been in bed and the house was quite cold with the heating off for the night. He had confirmed it to be a mild sprain that needed to be supported for a couple of days, and promptly kicked them out.

Sherlock bundled Molly into a cab and took her home, he was in a generally good mood anyway having solved the case earlier, but was also aware that a severely hung-over Molly would be of no use to him tomorrow, and he had an experiment with hair that he wanted to start.

It certainly had nothing to do with the cross-dressing case; it wasn't like John had laid out very specific terms upon which he would don ladies clothing. One of which was that Sherlock should start looking after his friends better; another that he should buy his own milk.

He deposited her on the sofa and pushed her bedroom door ajar lightly. Tom was sprawled out across the bed, and out of the count. There was no way he'd get Molly in the bed without moving Tom- and although he wouldn't wake him up, Sherlock was not overly keen on the idea of touching the drooling male adult.

He walked over to the sofa and poked Molly in the shoulder, upon no acknowledgment of the poke he checked she was breathing. Fully satisfied that she was merely passed out drunk and not likely to be of harm to herself, he went off in search of things she might need. He fished around in the cupboards and found some paracetamol, aspirin, and caffeine concoction. Sherlock placed the tablets and some water on the bedside table. He looked down at the small woman curled up on the sofa; she probably shouldn't be sleeping in her clothes. Something John shaped was nagging at the back of his mind with regard to social protocol in this situation. He perched on the end of the bed and fired off a text to John:

[is it appropriate to change Molly into pyjamas? SH]

[Go to sleep] John had set up an automated response to any text sent by Sherlock between the hours of midnight and 7 am. For the most part, they had failed miserably to convince the detective to leave him alone when he was trying to fulfil normal human functions.

[Should I strap her wrist? SH]

[Go to sleep] It didn't help matters that Sherlock had managed to permanently disable the silent function on John's phone.

[John, answer me or I will ring you until you pick up SH]

[Go to sleep], [Help her change, strap wrist, SLEEP] came the less than pleased, non-automated reply from John. Sherlock frowned, help implied consciousness. Molly was not. He had no trouble fitting a wrist splint, but was not comfortable with undressing Molly when she was unconscious, even he wasn't that socially retarded, so he resolved to prod her in the head until she woke up.

"Go away," Molly slurred, trying to wriggle away from him.

"You need to get changed, Molly," Sherlock said quietly, pulling her up into a sitting position,

"No." She pouted, fighting to lie back down again and failing miserably.

"John said so," Sherlock said with the voice of sibling to sibling pseudo-parent authority.

"Don't care," Molly sulked, still trying to lie down

"I'm not a patient man Molly," Sherlock growled, Molly turned to face him,

"Fine, Mr Bossy boots" She mocked, trying to stand up and promptly falling into the coffee table. Sherlock rolled his eyes as she fought to get back on the sofa, and snuck into the bedroom to get her some nightwear.

"Put this on. I'll get a blanket." He thrust one of his shirts at her and left to get something warm to put over her, hoping she'd be changed when he got back. No such luck. He spent the next half an hour watching Molly wander around the living room, depositing clothing everywhere and trying to find Toby. Apparently there was a craze on the internet where people put bread around their cat's necks. She wanted to try it, naturally. Another twenty minutes, three slices of bread and one very aggravated cat later, Molly was snuggled up on the sofa.

"Why're you here?" She asked softly,

"John said that's what friends do," Sherlock shrugged, John had actually said he had to do it, and that it was the least he could do after all the things she'd done for him, and if he didn't do it, John would punch him in the face again, but Molly didn't need to know all that.

"Ok. Nighty night," She mumbled into the cushion, sliding into a restful slumber.

* * *

Tom awoke to the beautiful sound of retching in the bathroom. Retching while the shower was running. He stumbled out of bed and into the lounge, where he found clothing strewn everywhere- on the table, the floor, the TV, and the sofa. He recognised most of it as Molly's; with a few notable exceptions- there was only one man who wore shirts like that. Tom hung his head, he'd never taken Molly for a cheat, but the scene in front of him did not bode well. He wandered towards the bathroom, where the retching noises had now ceased, and low murmurings could be heard.

"Molly, are you ok?" Tom asked, knocking lightly on the door.

"Come in," She croaked,

"What's going on Molls?" He asked softly, pushing the door ajar, he was greeted by a freshly shaven Sherlock,

"She threw up all over me. I believe the colloquial phrase is 'chunder dragon'."

"Why?" Tom yawned, Sherlock glared at him.

"She drank an entire bottle of wine on an empty stomach. She then elected to walk home, tripped over her own feet (a paving slab!) and sprained her wrist. There's a bruise on her shoulder where she fell into the coffee table trying to get undressed, and Toby was not impressed when she tried to 'bread' him - there are scratches up her forearm - instead of eating the bread which would have made the scenario of throwing up this morning less likely. Of course none of this would have happened if you had seen fit to escort her home yourself." He snarled, swept out of the bathroom and into the bedroom. Molly muttered the immortal words of the morning after the night before:

"I'm never drinking again."


	7. E: Experiments

Thank you all so much for your kind reviews, glad you're enjoying it! Ideas for the letter G are not being overly forthcoming at the moment so would be appreciated.

* * *

E is for Experiments

* * *

"Honestly Molly, he's a grown man." Tom complained, the frequency of 'Sherlock moments' were increasing, and he was not appreciating it. They were supposed to be having lunch together on one of her rare afternoons off.

"The last time he got bored, he started shooting the wall." Molly said, exasperated, her choice was not pleasant, but not hard either.

"Seriously?" Tom sounded halfway between scared and sceptical,

"I know it sounds ridiculous, but John's working. He'll be fired within the hour without some sort of intervention. I'm sorry, I really am, I'll make it up to you. It's a favour for John; it's the least I can do after…." Molly babbled, stopping abruptly upon forgetting how much Tom knew about the Reichenbach situation.

"What?" Tom asked, sounding more annoyed than confused.

"I'll tell you later, love you, bye," Molly said quickly, hanging up the phone before Tom could ask any more questions. She ran out the door and down the stairs, getting the next available cab to Baker Street. The drive was thankfully uneventful, and she found herself on the steps outside 221. Molly knocked briefly and the door was answered by a dishevelled looking Mrs Hudson,

"He's upstairs, I got John to hide his gun, and he isn't very happy about it." She explained, jumping a foot in the air at the loud bang that came from upstairs. Molly nodded at the landlady and hurried up the stairs.

"Sherlock, what are you doing?" Molly asked tentatively, taking a step into the flat.

"Trying to alleviate the crushing of boredom. I've solved 14 cases from the comfort of my chair today. Nothing higher than a 4." He exclaimed, throwing himself into his chair in a sulk.

"What was that noise?" She should know better than to question bizarre noises in Sherlock's flat by now, but curiosity got the better of her.

"Toes. BORED. I don't need to be babysat Molly, you should get back to Tim." Sherlock said derisively, shooing her with his hand. She took a seat on the sofa instead.

"It's Tom, and John asked me to be here so Greg doesn't have to calm the neighbours down again." Molly said quietly, fiddling with her ring.

"I was going to see John once I'd finished with the toes," Sherlock mused,

"That's why he sent me, he wants to keep his job." Molly knew she was fighting a losing battle, but keeping him talking meant less of other things.

"BORING! He hates his job." Sherlock complained,

"He needs the money Sherlock," Molly attempted an explanation she thought he might have overlooked- normal people needed money, especially those getting married.

"I can pay him." Sherlock replied,

"Then why don't you?" It was Molly's turn to be confused, had they not discussed this at any point since Sherlock's return?

"He never asked." Sherlock shrugged, answering Molly's unasked question.

"What is that?" Molly's attention was caught by an unusual object on the coffee table,

"It's a hand, you gave it to me," Sherlock patronised,

"You've painted its nails," Molly commented, unsure what to think of the mental image she now had of Sherlock getting out the nail varnish and applying undercoat… she shook the scene from her head,

"Bored." Sherlock whined, Molly wracked her brains for something to entertain him,

"There must be an open lecture on somewhere you can go to." She said, knowing the likelihood of one being on locally was slim,

"I'm already banned from most academic institutions, including the one I am a valid alumnus of!" Sherlock snorted, apparently academics didn't appreciate all the holes in their work being pointed out in front of hundreds of people.

"I always bake when I'm bored," Molly offered, clutching at straws.

"I know, I've got a graph plotted of your boredom versus my brother's waistline," Sherlock drawled, he was waiting for an opportunity to use it.

"Would baking make you less bored? It's sort of an experiment I guess? You could time how long it takes Mycroft to turn up?" She tried to twist the idea into something Sherlock might go for,

"Molly, you are a genius. To your house!" Sherlock exclaimed, flying out of his chair,

"What about the toes?" She called as he went to get his coat,

"Oh, they're in an acetone-dry ice bath, -78℃. They should be done by the time I'm back." He explained dismissively.

"Come on then, we've got shopping to do." Molly said, her voice devoid of excitement, the thought of having to constrain Sherlock in a supermarket, followed by getting him to follow vague instructions so the food would remain edible and then explaining to Tom why the brothers were in the flat again did not appeal to her. This was shaping up to be a really bad idea.

"Shopping?" Sherlock's face scrunched up in confusion and disgust,

"For ingredients, where did you think food came from? What do you want to bake?" Molly shook her head, hopefully he'd answer with something viable.

"Mycroft's favourite, custard tarts," Sherlock grinned, Molly sighed in relief,

"I love a good tart," she commented without thinking, "Not like that!" she squealed, blushing furiously.

* * *

By the time they got back to the flat Molly was already exhausted, Sherlock in a supermarket was not dissimilar to a toddler, a tall, loud, eloquent toddler. It transpired his baking skills were equally juvenile, she had flour in her hair, on her clothes, and all over the kitchen, the floor even on the lampshade. By some small miracle, a dozen freshly baked and edible custard tarts were sitting on the kitchen counter cooling down. Sherlock started his watch, waiting to see how long it would be before his brother arrived. He'd calculated roughly how long the car journey was from his office, the Diogenes club and Westminster to Molly's flat, and estimated it would take 5 minutes of internal struggle before he left. Mycroft's eta was anywhere between twenty minutes and an hour.

Molly looked around her, the destruction of her kitchen and self by flour reminded her of Saturdays spent with her mother, baking in their kitchen. The memory hit home to her of how she didn't have that yet, and it was looking less likely every year. She turned sharply on her heel and banished the thought from her mind, her priority here should be getting cleaned up before Tom got home, not wallowing in her approaching middle-age. Molly walked into the lounge, finding a flour covered Sherlock giving her sofa a thorough dusting.

Unfortunately, Tom got home sooner than she expected, much, much sooner. He opened the door to Molly and Sherlock arguing over the state of the sofa, and who should clean it. He was so engrossed in the scene in front of him that he didn't hear Mycroft arrive. The older man cleared his thought loudly, causing Tom to squeal like a little girl. Sherlock smirked and looked down at his watch,

"You're late brother-mine," Sherlock quipped, looking up from Molly,

"You're covered in flour." Mycroft sneered in disapproval, he didn't approve of messes of any kind.

"Well observed." Sherlock replied sarcastically,

"Custard tart and a cup of tea?" Molly offered, breaking the awkward silence that had descended.

"Really, Molly?" Sherlock asked a hint of amusement in his voice. The concept of Mycroft having tea with Tom was quite humorous indeed.


	8. F: Friends

Thank you all for your wonderful continued support, the next instalment is here! Huzzah!

* * *

F is for Friends

* * *

Molly had been called in to work early, Sherlock needed to see a body and was terrorising the general staff. That in itself was not a problem, it wasn't unusual and Molly was happy to help. This particular morning however was mostly spent stopping John from punching Sherlock in the face, whilst trying to do a post-mortem before her actual shift started in relatively little time. As amusing as it was to watch little and large bicker like children, in her haste this morning she'd forgotten her breakfast and the lunch she'd prepared the evening before, meaning she was sleep deprived, hungry and would quickly move beyond amused irritation into kicking them out of the morgue, something Sherlock would not appreciate in the slightest. Molly had tried every trick in the book to get him to go away, even up into the lab, so she could have something to eat. If she didn't get breakfast in the next half hour, she might have to start contemplating finding a sedative. Thankfully her phone rang,

"Hey Molls, you left all your food here, want me to drop it in?" Tom's cheery voice bubbled down the line,

"Please, that would be really, really helpful. I'll see you in a bit, bye," She thanked her lucky stars one of the men in her life remembered she needed to eat!

It wasn't long before Molly had another call saying he was in the cafeteria on the ground floor, she started to take off her lab coat and was hoping to sneak out while John and Sherlock were arguing over whether a person would literally cut off their nose to spite their face. Sherlock was convinced of it- citing van Gogh and his ear, John was pretty adamant that Sherlock was, in fact, insane.

"Where do you think you're going Molly?" Sherlock asked sharply as she got one arm free,

"To get some food! I've been here for hours and I'm hungry." Molly snapped,

"John, go and pick up Molly's food parcel from Tom." He waved his hand dismissively at his best friend, who did not take kindly to this,

"What? Why can't she go?" John exclaimed,

"She needs to finish the body." Sherlock answered calmly,

"Can it not wait 15 minutes?" John almost shouted, refraining from jumping up and down,

"No, Le Strade is expecting us at a crime scene in half an hour," Sherlock rolled his eyes, John was not complying in the manner he was expected to.

"When were you going to tell me that? I'd quite like some breakfast and some sleep! Not outrageous demands, Sherlock." If it were biologically possible, steam would be pouring out of John's ears, he was nearly the appropriate shade of red after all.

"Well you could pick something up for yourself while you're getting Molly's. I thought that was a given." Sherlock said slowly, as if to a child, smirking at John's rage.

"Nothing is a given with you." John muttered under his breath, storming out of the morgue.

* * *

"Where's Molly?" Tom asked as John approached him,

"His highness, the royal arse of St Bart's, won't let her out yet. Sorry, Tom, this is just how it's always been. He doesn't deal well with change." John explained as best he could, getting into the food queue for his own breakfast,

"What is their relationship?" Tom asked suddenly, John frowned briefly,

"Sherlock doesn't do friends. Or at least doesn't recognise that he does them. If he was to do friends by the conventional definition, then Molly would be one of his closest friends, but he doesn't. You'd probably have to ask them to be honest." John shrugged, queuing for a bacon sandwich.

"It's just; it's a really abnormal friendship. There are things that they don't blink an eyelid at that most people would find suspicious." Tom continued, he felt like John was the only person he could talk to about this.

"That's just Sherlock. Look, I've got to get back before…" John, however, was growing tired of Tom's inability to accept the oddity of Sherlock Holmes. Marriage is about compromise, and John knew who would win out if Tom made her choose, and it wasn't him.

"Before what?" Sherlock's low voice interrupted,

"Why are you here?" John asked exasperated, was it so much to ask for five minutes peace?

"You were taking too long, and Molly wouldn't stop whining." He said shortly, taking the lunch box out of Tom's hands.

"Sherlock, what are you doing?" John asked, beginning to get irritated,

"Taking this to Molly. She's awfully annoying when she hasn't eaten." Sherlock said shortly, turning on his heel.

"Right, so she's allowed to eat, but I'm not?" John called after him

"I can tune you out more easily." Sherlock replied, John held his breath and counted to ten. Nothing good would come of murdering Sherlock in public, too many witnesses. If he did it later, Greg wouldn't press charges- he might even help.

"That's as normal an interaction as you'll get." John sighed, anger replaced by exhaustion.

* * *

It was in the privacy of a cab on the way to the crime scene that John decided to try and solve the 'Molly' puzzle.

"Sherlock, what is Molly to you?" He asked suddenly, breaking the silence,

"She's… Molly," Sherlock frowned, he wasn't sure where John was going with this, and didn't like the look in his eye. He was up to something.

"Insightful." John said sarcastically.

"I don't do friends John," Sherlock reminded, trying to stop the conversation before it got started.

"If I'm your friend, then Molly definitely is," John pointed out, Sherlock narrowed his eyes,

"How are you quantifying this? You and Molly have different functions to me," John should have known he'd have a scientific approach,

"Right. She does things for you, she helped you kill yourself. She comes in at all hours to help," The shorter man began listing some of the more normal aspects of their friendship, Sherlock raised an eyebrow,

"She also does my washing on occasion, makes my brother cake, and has previously dyed my hair, what's that have to do with anything?" Sherlock said breezily, as if it were the most normal thing in the world.

"I did wonder what happened when Mrs Hudson went on holiday," John chuckled to himself

"I am capable of looking after myself," Sherlock sulked, he was perfectly capable, he just preferred not to.

"I'll believe that when I see it." John scoffed, grinning at his best friend's mock-hurt expression,

"Look, Tom is still getting used to you. You and Molly are not normal friends." He changed tack, maybe Sherlock needed to see it from a different perspective,

"What are we then, oh social guru," Sherlock mocked,

"From what you've said, she's somewhere in between your sister and your wife." John mused out loud,

"Oh please." Sherlock snorted

"You do treat her in a very similar way to Mycroft now I think about it. You only speak to them when you need them, they're both in the business of saving your life, they both like cake. The two of you bicker over scientific equipment the same way you and Mycroft argue over deductions." The doctor continued his train of thought, ignoring Sherlock's interruptions

"Really, John-"

"This machine is quicker, this one is more accurate, but you don't need accurate, you just need to know whether it's there or not, but I want to be able to quantify it later, then you can run another sample later," John mimicked a conversation from that morning over the patient's toxicology report and whether they should test for something off the radar. In the end, Molly had won, Molly always won.

"Not necessary-"

"On top of that, she does things for you only someone's mother or wife could be expected to do. Actually, I'm not sure whether she is more similar a mum's role or a wife's role for you."

"That's enough-"

"To be honest, she's the only one that could not kill you long enough to marry you," He finished, holding back the laughter,

"She's marrying Tom, John." Sherlock said coldly, glaring down at his friend,

"So you'd rather think of her as your mother then? Somewhere between mother and sister. Lucky Molly, not even friend-zoned, family-zoned." John shook his head, the whole situation was farcical.

"What on Earth are you talking about?" Relationship colloquialisms weren't Sherlock's thing surprisingly.

"We're here," John said, quickly departing the cab, leaving behind a moderately bemused Sherlock.

* * *

So the next few will be G is for Graves, Goo and Goggles, H is for Handcuffs and I is for Injections. There will be guacamole somewhere, so keep an eye out.


	9. G: Graves, Goo

A/N: Thank you SO much for all your reviews/follows/favourites so far! You're all fabulous. So people are asking if this is shipping, I've decided that I'm going to keep this one purely platonic, just their weird version of friendship. I am also planning however, if you wish, to do something along the lines of a Z- A of Getting Together as a sequel? I've got quite a lot written for the end of the alphabet, (particularly looking forward to posting U is for underwear…) it's just taking a while to get a few of the middle chapters out- so apologies for that. Any thoughts/prompts just leave us a message or review :D

* * *

G is for Graves and Goo

* * *

It was a beautiful Sunday morning, crisp but still warm enough to only need a cardigan. Given how rare these days are in England, Tom and Molly decided to take a walk and enjoy it to the full. They chatted idly, not really saying anything, just enjoying each other's company and the birds- they were very audible at 7 am, not that the London traffic was overly bothersome in the middle of Regent's Park, but it was still more pleasant never the less. What they didn't expect however, was to bump into Sherlock and John on the way home. Especially not Sherlock and John covered in dirt, having exhumed a coffin in a random public cemetery. Molly winced inwardly; this was not going to go well.

She was right, as they approached, the coffin exploded, throwing orange goo all over Sherlock and John. A strangely triumphant noise could be heard from the detective, followed by a noise of discomfort as John punched him in the arm.

"You knew this was going to happen and you didn't think to warn me? I should have known something was up when you turned up looking like one of your homeless network." John shouted angrily, he was not dressed in clothes that he was willing to get covered in orange gunk.

"Hi guys, looking very… orange?" Molly greeted them, trying very hard not to laugh. Sherlock's expression brightened even further,

"Molly! Excellent! There's been a couple of exploding graves recently, unfortunately out of the jurisdiction of Bart's and they wouldn't send the exhumed bodies there, and I need your opinion on it," Sherlock said quickly, taking his rucksack off,

"I haven't got any of my kit," Molly said slowly, there was no way she was sticking her arms in a decomposing corpse without gloves- that would just be unsanitary.

"Good job I stopped by and got it this morning then," Sherlock looked down at her smugly, handing her the rucksack,

"Erm, Molls, are you sure you should be doing that here?" Tom asked tentatively, it wasn't that he wasn't proud of Molly, he just couldn't stomach what she did very well.

"Mycroft said it's fine." Sherlock dismissed Tom's concerns with a wave of his hand,

"Ok, I'll see you at home," Tom smiled weakly, squeezing her hand,

"Oh I won't be long," Molly smiled brightly at him putting on her lab coat and safety specs, she enjoyed the more unusual cases that Sherlock dealt with the most.

"You should watch, I am under the impression couples should appreciate what each other do for work." Sherlock said loftily, watching Molly carry out her preliminary examination

"Corpses aren't everyone's cup of tea, Sherlock," John said carefully, Sherlock frowned slightly,

"It's a fairly fresh one, dead no longer than…"

"Two weeks," Sherlock and Molly answered together, Tom felt a pang in his chest, he was never going to have that sort of connection with her, he was vegetarian so he didn't have to handle meat for crying out loud!

"Maybe if you knew what she was doing, she'd stop confiding in that cat of hers. Unhealthy." Sherlock continued his uncharacteristic support for Molly,

"Sherlock, stop now," John almost pleaded, now was not the time for the most unsocial man in history to become a relationship guru.

"Besides, it's mostly covered in orange goo; there isn't much of a smell either surprisingly," Sherlock ignored John and carried on speaking,

"Sherlock," John said through gritted teeth,

"Yes, John," Sherlock answered, as a teacher to a pupil, John was not impressed. He was covered in orange goo at an unreasonable time of morning in a cemetery.

"Cat thing, unhealthy, yes. However-" The doctor began, but was interrupted much to his displeasure. He may as well have stayed at home this morning with his wife-to-be, nothing was worth this.

"However nothing John, you are constantly badgering on about compromise, and although Molly is the queen of compromising her happiness for everyone else- probably not the best precedent to set with one's future life partner if one wants to be happy." Sherlock berated his friend, John blinked, speechless at the astute social commentary his friend had just given,

"He-he's right actually. There's a first for everything I guess. Come and have a look Tom- I've seen worse, Afghanistan wasn't the kindest to the corpses it left. If ever there was a time to watch an autopsy, I guess this would be it." The anger at his situation washed away as John processed what Sherlock had said,

"You should be proud of her, there aren't many who can do what she does," Sherlock said quietly,

"She should be made a Dame just for dealing with you!" John mocked, grinning up at the curly-haired detective,

"Hmm, maybe next time Mycroft threatens me with a knighthood, I'll insist he gives it to Molly." Sherlock chuckled, John's surprise at this was not feigned, nor was his moderate hurt at being put second to the pathologist.

"What about me?" John exclaimed,

"You can have the one after." Sherlock said as if it were the most obvious thing in the world,

"You've been threatened with a knighthood?" Tom asked timidly, thus far he'd just been trying to avoid seeing the goo covered corpse, and ignore the detectives jibes at his relationship.

"Odd turn of phrase, I'll give you that, but yes. My brother's amusement of choice is allowing dignitaries to offer me things, he knows I HATE that." Sherlock mused, rolling his eyes at his brother's behaviour.

"How many?" Tom asked, confused that threatening honours was even possible.

"Right, nothing obvious on the skin, or in the explosion cavity, except the goo- which appears to be a combination of orange food products- oranges, carrots, mangoes, sweet potato, butternut squash. That sort of thing. Possible poisoning, can you get him back to the morgue?" Molly rattled off her observations, putting her gloves in the biohazard bag in the pocket of her lab coat. The conversation about whether Tom should watch had lasted as long as the autopsy itself.

"Get him in the body bag," Sherlock ordered, gesticulating towards the rucksack and in John's general direction.

"Is this going to be a repeat of flu-day?" John asked slowly, he'd always been curious about that.

"Shut up John," Was the eloquent reply from Sherlock.

* * *

"How did he know we'd be walking through the right cemetery?" Tom asked shortly, as if she'd somehow planned the whole thing,

"Ketchup on my shoe yesterday, I don't know. Probably hedged his bets as to the route we'd take and where the next body would be," Molly said in a very exasperated tone, contrary to some people's beliefs she was not his keeper.

"It's starting to freak me out Molls; maybe you should get John to have a word," Tom confessed once they were well out of earshot, he did not sign up for this.

"You'll get used to it; give it a little more time, please? For me?" She pleaded, she hadn't anticipated everything going back to pre-Reichenbach quite so quickly.

"Ok, for you," Tom smiled down at her, and kissed her forehead.

* * *

The next few days passed without complaint, no more corpse explosions or random Sherlock incidents, Tom was beginning to get suspicious, usually if there was a lull, then something big was coming. That something usually involved Tom getting extremely uncomfortable, or discovering something else that was supposedly normal between Molly and her friends. He was growing aggravated with the way she got taken for granted too, especially when she protested that she wasn't.

He had popped into St Bart's so they could have lunch together, he'd never liked the place much in the first place, but the constant threat of the appearance of Sherlock made it even less appealing. As if right on cue, a commotion exploded outside-

"Out the way, dead body coming through," Sherlock's voice boomed throughout the corridors, followed by John's apologies,

"MOLLY!" He shouted as they approached the cafeteria, she gave an apologetic look to Tom and rushed to the hallway,

"We've got another one, pre-explosion." John explained, starting to undo the body-bag,

"Good, get him downstairs," She pulled her safety specs down off her head to cover her eyes, this corpse could explode at any moment,

"I'll see you later, Molly," Tom said, having walked up unnoticed beside her, he squeezed her hand and went to leave when, right at the perfect moment, the body exploded bright orange goo all over him. Molly bit her tongue until it nearly bled to stop herself falling over with hysteria. Sherlock and John exchanged an amused glance, before the shorter man proclaimed the obvious:

"Well that was unfortunate." Sherlock smirked.


	10. G: Greg

Inspired by SammyKatz review that Graves made her think of Rupert Graves so I thought I'd dedicate a chapter to him! As always, many thanks to all reviewers/followers/favouriters/readers love to you all, you make exam revision so much better. Due to popular demand, I will do a sequel of getting together, but at the moment there are at least 20 more chapters of this in the pipeline to go first.

* * *

G is for Greg

* * *

It had been a horrible week, not quite the level which usually drove her to drink, but horrid none the less. Greg however, had spent a lot more time one the case than she had. With retrospect, perhaps they hadn't bothered her that much more than she expected for an 8. Thus, Greg and Molly were sat in the pub; him drinking his sorrows upon finding out his wife had cheating again, and Molly consoling him. It was still fairly early and neither had eaten yet, so Molly offered to cook them something and said he could crash at hers if he was too upset to go home. She had been with more than her fair share of cheaters, so they spent the journey home discussing the best revenge to get on a cheating partner.

"You sure Tom won't mind?" He asked as they entered her flat, Molly shook her head,

"I'm allowed to lend the sofa to a friend in need." She said defiantly, "If he wants me to stop having male friends now the gang is back together then he's not the man for me, is he?"

"By which you mean, he has to be able to hack the bunch of weirdoes you hang about with," Greg grinned, Molly laughed, and beckoned for him to sit down,

"We are a bit odd, but where's the fun in normal?" she said instantly regretting her words, she chose Tom for a normal, stable lifestyle. He didn't fit in to her life pre-Reichenbach, during Sherlock's absence the group had crumbled, each grieving in their own way and throwing themselves into work, but since his return and she didn't have to lie about his mortality any more, life was different again. Not in a bad way, not quite pre-suicide, but still not normal enough for normal-Tom it would seem.

"I don't think we're wired for normal, army doctor, sociopath, pathologist, homicide detective. We all like our stuff a little morbid," Greg grinned, flopping into the squishy sofa,

"We are a right bunch. Tea, coffee, beer, wine?" Molly asked, pleased she wasn't the only one that thought they were a strange group of friends. She found the oddity quite endearing, but was getting the impression Tom was quickly growing tired of it. Partners were supposed to compromise, if she wasn't allowed to talk about her job, and had to put up with his really boring friends, then he'd have to deal with a few eccentricities from her not so boring ones.

"Beer if you've got any Molls, please?" Greg asked, grateful for her hospitality, he'd really hoped his wife had got past cheating by now, but according to Sherlock that was not the case.

"Sure, I'll dig something out of the freezer for dinner; it'll be about an hour. Tom will be late tonight, I can leave his is the oven." Molly called from the kitchen, faffing about with glasses and bottles. They spent the time the food was cooking bitching about exes, discussing Greg's kids and how they whole saga was affecting them. The conversation moved on to the week's events, and how neither of them understood how John still had a vague sense of sanity. They laughed fondly at memories of John and Sherlock's escapades, and decided they were pleased he was getting married, even if it increased the chance of a Sherlock Related Incident exponentially. John deserved to be happy, they concluded, he'd had to put up with the man-child long enough.

"He said that to me you know, after we finished that case. He told me I deserve to be happy," Molly commented, it had put her in an awkward position. He'd asked her to go to fish and chips with him afterwards, and to any onlookers it was the perfect date for the two of them. Sadly, she was engaged, and it does not look good going to dinner with another man when you are betrothed. Even if that man is Sherlock Holmes and likely has no idea about any social context to the situation. In hindsight she'd definitely done the right thing, as Tom wasn't taking too kindly to their friendship, he probably would have flipped over dinner arrangements.

"That must be easily the nicest thing he's ever said to you." Greg said, taken aback by this revelation.

"It was unnerving actually, he was being nice. Freaked me out a little if I'm honest," Molly laughed at the absurdity of her statement,

"Only with Sherlock could you be put on edge by manners." Greg rolled his eyes and chuckled to himself. It was more than a little ridiculous really.

Molly served lasagne and they ate slowly, continuing to mock the self-diagnosed sociopath. It wasn't often they could let off steam , as due to the demands of their jobs and strange working hours they didn't often get a chance to meet outside of cases. They spent the rest of the evening laughing, reminiscing and it wasn't long before the conversation had rolled around to their favourite topic again, Sherlock bashing. Molly was in the middle of describing a particularly gruesome autopsy she did when Tom walked in the door, unfortunately for him, neither Greg or Molly heard the door go,

"…So there I was, elbow deep in Mr Hodges, who had been dead a while before he got to me so smelled awful, when he bursts in, coat billowing like he's wearing some kind of cape. I asked him what he wanted, trying to deal with this man's decomposing bowels, and he picks up one of the feet, dislodging the body, and suddenly I'm up to my shoulder in Mr Hodges. My face was practically in his stomach, it took days to get the smell of putrid food and acid out of my hair. Since then I've forbidden him from touching corpses while I'm inside them. Surprisingly he's obeyed, although I did threaten to put bits of spleen in his coffee." Molly finished the two of the roaring with laughter, when Tom walked through the lounge into the bathroom looking decidedly green.

"Is he alright?" Greg asked, after 5 minutes of silence, during which Tom had not reappeared.

"He doesn't like me talking about my work, weak stomach," Molly said quietly, wringing her hands together nervously, as if she'd done something wrong.

"Why is there a man on the sofa?" Tom asked testily, he'd had a long day, and wasn't expecting to come home to his future wife enjoying the company of another man.

"You remember Greg, from Scotland Yard- his wife got caught stepping out again and he didn't want to go home. It's only for a night," Molly smiled weakly; she disliked upsetting people without reason. Although it did seem like Tom was out to get her a lot more recently.

"Do you let any Tom, Dick and Harry stay here?" He half-shouted, throwing his hands in the air in frustration. He turned his back on her and got ready for bed in silence.

"No, just my friends when they need somewhere to stay," Molly mumbled, she sighed quietly to herself, with the proportional of male friends she had, this did not bode well.

* * *

Molly and Greg were both out early the next morning, leaving Tom in bed with a cup of tea. For once, she was grateful for the early shift. Greg grinned conspiratorially at her,

"He shouldn't talk to you like that, so I put a laxative in his tea, that's what friends are for right?" He said in a low voice, referring to the conversation he'd heard the night before. Molly couldn't help but giggle incessantly for most of her day, she had such good friends.

* * *

A/N: Now taking prompts for H, I and J!


	11. H: Highlighter-man, Helicopter

Thank you all for the wonderful support, I've had some fantastic prompts! The wedding will be covered, under W for Wedding, as I've got too much to put in before that happens; S is for Speech Writing for example. For now, the next instalment, enjoy!

* * *

H is for Highlighter-man, Helicopter

* * *

Molly and Tom had gone away for the bank holiday weekend to visit family; they were attending a large garden party hosted by Tom's parents in the heart of the Sussex countryside. Molly was praying for a murder-less weekend, she didn't fancy explaining Sherlock to all of Tom's relatives. The Saturday passed without so much of a whisper from the detective, they enjoyed a couple of games of Stoolball, music, and copious amounts of Pimms in the Sussex sunshine. Sunday started off normally, breakfast on the patio, followed by helping prepare the food the BBQ later. A loud noise above the house disturbed the peace, and drew everyone outside, upon seeing the helicopter Molly's heart sank. It landed in the field next to the house, and out came an immaculately dressed gentleman who, despite the weather, was carrying an umbrella.

"Miss Hooper, if you would kindly follow me, your assistance is required, and promptly." Mycroft said the words Molly was dreading, she gave him a look that could not be considered friendly and he raised an eyebrow,

"You'll have to take that up with my brother," He said casually, asking her unanswered question, Molly grimaced, the last thing she needed was for Tom's family to be exposed to Sherlock,

"He's not here, is he?" She asked, already knowing the answer. That didn't stop her jumping when a low voice boomed out behind her,

"Of course I am! You really think I'd leave you alone with him?" Sherlock grinned, Molly's face fell further, that did not bode well.

"Really, this couldn't wait until tomorrow?" She was dangerously close to sounding like she was whining.

"Nope," Sherlock answered, popping the p. He was in a disgustingly good mood, that could mean only one thing: there was a murder. Oh joy.

"I'll get my things," She sighed, resigned to her fate,

"No need, I've got them," He said, pushing her bag into her arms. Tom's cousin had come over to see who the strangers were, and came into the conversation at a less than opportune moment,

"You've been through her things?" Tom could feel his temper being to heat up,

"Many times," Sherlock shrugged, as if it were the most normal thing in the world.

"Excuse me?" Tom's cousin barked, Molly glared at the detective,

"Inappropriate Sherlock." She hissed, holding back the need to stamp on his foot.

"Sherlock? Are you that detective bloke that flung himself off a roof and then came back to life?" The cousin asked, obviously trying to hide the fact she read John's blog, and every newspaper article written about him,

"Boring, there's a body you'll want to see," Sherlock rolled his eyes, he hated fan girls, they were a waste of his time.

"What?" Exclaimed another relative, clearly Molly's profession wasn't disclosed to the family,

"You're going to enjoy this one; it looks like he's been soaked in fluorescein, practically glows in the dark. Nothing that could have caused his death observable on the outside, definitely soaked after death, wasn't drowned in it," Sherlock made no attempt to hide his glee, unfortunately for Molly; she didn't notice that his description had put a grin on her face too.

"Well when you put it that way, how can she refuse?" The other relative said, her words dripping with sarcasm.

"I wouldn't elope with that man if I were you, he's your half-brother, your father had an affair." Sherlock snapped, unimpressed by the interruptions. "Also I want his liver," He added as an afterthought, looking down at Molly,

"You can have a kidney," She bargained, the relatives that were listening in became more confused as the conversation reverted to what was entirely normal for the pair, but not for the general public.

"Fine, but I want an arm," Sherlock sulked, he much preferred livers to experiment with, kidneys were too variable.

"Fine, an arm and a kidney," Molly shook her head in despair, ignoring the looks her relative-in-law to be were giving her. A distant wailing caught Sherlock's attention like that of a meerkat sensing a predator.

"Come on, before John and Greg get here," He said shortly, indicating towards the helicopter Mycroft had already re-boarded.

"Right so, male, how old? Weight? Height? Any idea as to cause of death?" Molly fired off questions,

"40 -50, average height and weight, non-smoker, I've got a few ideas," Sherlock answered, his usual smirk on his lips.

"Right, let's get him on my slab then." Molly proclaimed rubbing her hands together in anticipation, momentarily forgetting where she was. As the two turned to leave, a small frown passed over Molly's face,

"Don't worry, there's a spare bra in your locker," Sherlock said a little too loudly, this time Molly did whack him in the arm,

"Again, inappropriate!" She chided, shaking her head when he simply rolled his eyes at her.

As the chopper was flying off overhead, John and Greg came running around the side of the house,

"Oh the bastard, he's gone isn't he," John panted, the question directed to no one in particular.

"You've just missed him; he's run off with Molly again," Tom said through gritted teeth

"Mycroft and his sodding helicopters. We were going to come and get her before he could arrive and spoil everybody's day," John was apologetic as one could be when they were chasing down a socially inept genius for damage limitation unrelated to the top secret murder case they needed to solve as soon as possible.

"Too late," Tom's bitterness was not lost on Greg, who was beginning to get more than a little cheesed off at the young man's attitude to Molly's job. Tom shook his head, pulled a cigarette out of his pocket, lit is and took a long drag.

"Since when do you smoke?" His cousin asked, shocked by his behaviour.

"It calms me down." Tom replied simply, taking another puff.

"If you find any in odd places at Molly's don't smoke them, I don't know what he adulterates them with." John warned, he knew Sherlock liked to play around with anything he could get his hands on, and wouldn't be past experimenting on Tom to see what effects different compounds could have.

"I thought they were Molly's, I keep finding Nicotine Patches, thought she was covertly trying to quit." Tom shrugged; it wasn't his fault that everything normal in his life had suddenly become some sort of hazardous unknown. John's phone went ping, as if right on cue,

"For Christ's sake, Sherlock says to stop stealing his cigarettes. I would, I threw some away once and all my socks disappeared. He hid every pair of socks I owned, for a month. If I bought a new pair, they disappeared too." John ran his hand through his hair, he'd been trying to help the detective quit by throwing the cigarettes out. He didn't account for just how outraged the curly-haired man would be.

"He hid all your socks," Greg laughed, for someone who prized himself on rational thinking, Sherlock could be highly illogical sometimes.

"He said he was originally going to donate my entire wardrobe to his homeless network, but settled for just hiding my socks in the end. When he gave them back, it turned out he'd put a different composition of itching powder he'd come up with in each one." John winced at the memory, it took about half an hour for the effect to take place the first time, and left him looking like he constantly needed to go to the toilet. On top of that, they couldn't find a way to stop the itching, something Sherlock was far too pleased about. John had spent the next day with Molly, clearing out the biohazards in the fridge. Boundaries had never been Sherlock's strong point, but when John threatened to throw away all his experiments, he quickly learned them.

"He made his own itching powder?" Tom asked, why would anyone do that? How would you do that?

"He's a chemist, hence why you should never accept anything he offers you, or leaves lying around. He makes up his own versions of things because he's Sherlock and he always knows best." John explained, subconsciously scratching his hand.

"Will Molly be coming back?" Was the obvious question, the look on Tom's face said he knew the answer before the question left his lips.

"Doubtful, if Mycroft's involved then it doesn't bode well. Look, Tom, you love her, we get that. You met her while things were different, ok. You have to start accepting that this is her life, and was for a long time before she met you, even before Sherlock knew John, those two have history." Greg replied shortly, the young man's attitude was not sitting well with him.

"What sort of history," One relative asked sharply,

"Oh please, he's the most asexual being on the planet. Molly gets enough grief off Sherlock; she doesn't need you adding to that. Do I make myself clear?" Greg could see that John was getting as fed up and he was, best to lay all the cards on the table.

"He's the problem," Tom muttered under his breath,

"Let me make this simple for you. We are Molly's friends; we care for her wellbeing, and want her to be happy. If you upset her, you'll have a military doctor, a long serving police officer and a sociopath whose brother is the government to answer to. Understood?" Greg was getting quite irate; it was not fair on the pathologist to have to deal with two sulking man-children. "The alternative is that Molly will just deal with you herself. I wouldn't anger a woman who knows her way around a scalpel. Come to think of it I wouldn't anger a woman full stop."

"Which is why your wife keeps cheating on you, come on there's work to do!" Sherlock appeared out of nowhere, ushering the two other men off the property,

"Yes your highness," Greg mocked, as much as he hated Sherlock commenting on his marriage he knew the taller man was right.

"Didn't you get in the helicopter?" John asked, confused as to where he'd been hiding all this time,

"No John. No room, you should know by now my brother doesn't travel without Anthea," Sherlock explained, as if to a five year old.

"Fair point, right, see you later," John grumbled, making a minimal attempt at some sort of manners. The drive back to London was going to be a long one.


End file.
